Thursday September 9th 2004
Ok, time for the latest update.
I knew I didn’t have much time to track down the blackmailer, though I was plagued with a vague sense of unease. Something about this case just didn’t add up. Either that or the Lentil Bourgignon I’d had for tea didn’t agree with me.
I did one final check on the blackmail notes, but they didn’t really reveal anything useful, other than that the person who sent them was right-handed, drove a red, four-door Mondeo saloon, wore corduroy slacks and had a birthmark in the shape of the Thundercats logo on his right buttock. The mention of corduroy slacks made me hesitate for a moment. No, it couldn’t be… surely not Bill Oddie? I realised almost instantly that the lack of feathers or bird poo ruled him out as a suspect, but it was a good ten minutes before I recovered my composure.
I decided it was time to hit the pavement, in search of clues. Sadly, the pavement proved quite aggressive and attempted to hit me back, so I thought better of that idea quite rapidly.
How else was I going to find out who was behind this dastardly plot? There was only one thing for it – it was time to go to Mondo Bizarro, our premier nitespot and 24-hour bingo hall. I raced home, grabbed my best clubbing outfit (the black pvc jumpsuit, with integral cupholders and my thigh length dominatrix boots) and jumped into the nearest taxi.
We arrived a few minutes later (I would have walked, but in these boots, no way!) and I fell out of the taxi and into the arms of the Mondo doorman, Tarquin Gaylord. He seemed very pleased to see me (as he doesn’t carry a concealed weapon – as a rule) and rushed me through the check-in procedure.
He then steered me to a corner booth (the one with the banquette) and told me to wait there, he had something to show me. Well, I nearly fainted from shock as he whipped out his seed catalogue and pointed to page 43. There, right in the middle of the page, was an advert for the Spalding Institute, purveyor of rare plants. There was a small picture in the top right hand corner of the advert which I couldn’t quite make out, so I took out my magnifying glass from my Secret Agent’s Utility Belt™ and looked closer. ‘Why, that’s the Evil Bunnyfoot!’ I cried. Clearly the Spalding Institute needed further investigation. Tarquin had made a copy of the page for me, so I thanked him profusely and headed for the bar.
I took the only empty seat and ordered one of Mondo Bizarro’s now legendary cocktails, the Weekend Warrior. It’s a mixture of dark rum, white rum, purple rum, a splash of Lilt for extra flavour and topped off with a float of gun oil. Just the thing for a cosmopolitan private dick about town.
I’d only been at the bar for ten minutes, when I was tapped lightly on the shoulder. It was Merv Hughes, the Australian cricketing legend, asking me to dance. I tried to decline, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so we took to the dancefloor just in time for the Gay Gordons. After two hours of tripping the light fantastic, my feet were killing me and the pvc jumpsuit was getting a shade warm. We sat down in a quiet corner of the bingo hall section to take a bit of a breather, at which point Merv leaned over and revealed that it was all a disguise and he was actually Jim from over the road. He’s always had a soft spot for me, ever since the time I rescued him from certain death at the hands of a crooked pie salesman. He thrust a crumpled envelope into my hands with the words ‘Take this and guard it well. It may save your life one day.’
At this point, one of the old ladies sitting further up the hall keeled over – nothing serious, she’d just had one too many Knicker Droppers – and in the resulting confusion I made my escape.
I raced home as fast as I could (which wasn’t particularly fast in the boots I was wearing) and once I’d got home and set the Stalkermatic 5000 security system, I opened the envelope. Inside was a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card from a Monopoly set, a plastic ID card in the name of Ethel Muggins and a small bronze key. This mystery was getting way too confusing, so I did the only thing I could and fell asleep in front of Bargain Hunt.
Stay tuned for more exciting adventures.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Another bit!
Wednesday September 8th 2004
Time to update you all once more with the details of 'The Case of the Filthy Blackmailer'.
After my meeting with the mysterious Mr Loomis - his voice sounds strangely familiar, but I just can't place it yet - I hotfooted it back home to examine the blackmail notes more carefully.
I firstly dusted them for fingerprints, but it appears the only ones there belonged to myself and Mr Loomis (I'd managed to get his prints earlier, as he'd fingered my leather trenchcoat in a most unseemly fashion) which wasn't particularly helpful.
The actual text of the notes was fairly unremarkable. They were printed with an HP Laserjet 5000 series printer, using paper that could be purchased almost anywhere. The first one, dated September 1 2004, read as follows:
I know your secret. I saw what you did, last summer, in the conservatory, with the lead piping. And I don’t think the police would be too happy about it. But my silence is yours, for a price. I will contact you again soon with my fineanshal fienanshyal monetary demands.
The second note (dated September 1 2004) was slightly more sinister:
Do not cross me. I know you went to the police. I also know that they can do nothing yet, as you cannot reveal your foul crime. And, let’s be honest, the News of the World are just gagging for a story like this. But I will keep your secret, providing you pay me what I want. Put £50,000 into a briefcase and leave it in locker 415 at the bus station in three days time. I’ll be watching you.
Pretty serious stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. But I had to press on with the investigations.
Next to discover the source of the odour that permeated the notes. Mixed in with the exhaust fumes, pickled onion and eau de cologne, was another, much subtler scent. I managed to isolate it using my CSI™ Spectographic Analyser with in-built Smell-O-Matic. This told me that the scent in question belonged to a very rare flower, found only in the lower foothills of the Andes, the Mixamatosis Deadlyitus or, to give it the more common name, the Evil Bunnyfoot. It's a carnivorous plant, usually snaring small mammals, which it attracts by the cunning ploy of emitting high-pitched squeaks in code. What's even more interesting is that if you manage to extract the sap (without the loss of any vital organs or limbs), it can be made into a high-grade narcotic and all-purpose adhesive - a bit like Pritt, only more addictive.
I was sure of only two things, that the blackmailer obviously had horticultural knowledge, and that he couldn't spell 'financial'. None of which was much help.
After all that, I had another phonecall from Mr Loomis, who sounded very agitated. He said he’d had a call from the blackmailer, demanding that the blackmail money be paid, and that he stop cavorting with cheap hussies in the Safeway car park. He’d told him that he couldn’t get the money in time, and the blackmailer (who’d disguised his voice with one of those cheap microphone thingies from Woolworths) agreed to let him have two more days.
I was really livid about the cheap hussy remark (that trenchcoat cost me a fortune), but this was no time to get emotional. No, it was time to settle down with a cup of tea to watch The Vicar of Dibley on UK Gold and ponder my next move.
More news as it happens, folks.
Time to update you all once more with the details of 'The Case of the Filthy Blackmailer'.
After my meeting with the mysterious Mr Loomis - his voice sounds strangely familiar, but I just can't place it yet - I hotfooted it back home to examine the blackmail notes more carefully.
I firstly dusted them for fingerprints, but it appears the only ones there belonged to myself and Mr Loomis (I'd managed to get his prints earlier, as he'd fingered my leather trenchcoat in a most unseemly fashion) which wasn't particularly helpful.
The actual text of the notes was fairly unremarkable. They were printed with an HP Laserjet 5000 series printer, using paper that could be purchased almost anywhere. The first one, dated September 1 2004, read as follows:
I know your secret. I saw what you did, last summer, in the conservatory, with the lead piping. And I don’t think the police would be too happy about it. But my silence is yours, for a price. I will contact you again soon with my fineanshal fienanshyal monetary demands.
The second note (dated September 1 2004) was slightly more sinister:
Do not cross me. I know you went to the police. I also know that they can do nothing yet, as you cannot reveal your foul crime. And, let’s be honest, the News of the World are just gagging for a story like this. But I will keep your secret, providing you pay me what I want. Put £50,000 into a briefcase and leave it in locker 415 at the bus station in three days time. I’ll be watching you.
Pretty serious stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. But I had to press on with the investigations.
Next to discover the source of the odour that permeated the notes. Mixed in with the exhaust fumes, pickled onion and eau de cologne, was another, much subtler scent. I managed to isolate it using my CSI™ Spectographic Analyser with in-built Smell-O-Matic. This told me that the scent in question belonged to a very rare flower, found only in the lower foothills of the Andes, the Mixamatosis Deadlyitus or, to give it the more common name, the Evil Bunnyfoot. It's a carnivorous plant, usually snaring small mammals, which it attracts by the cunning ploy of emitting high-pitched squeaks in code. What's even more interesting is that if you manage to extract the sap (without the loss of any vital organs or limbs), it can be made into a high-grade narcotic and all-purpose adhesive - a bit like Pritt, only more addictive.
I was sure of only two things, that the blackmailer obviously had horticultural knowledge, and that he couldn't spell 'financial'. None of which was much help.
After all that, I had another phonecall from Mr Loomis, who sounded very agitated. He said he’d had a call from the blackmailer, demanding that the blackmail money be paid, and that he stop cavorting with cheap hussies in the Safeway car park. He’d told him that he couldn’t get the money in time, and the blackmailer (who’d disguised his voice with one of those cheap microphone thingies from Woolworths) agreed to let him have two more days.
I was really livid about the cheap hussy remark (that trenchcoat cost me a fortune), but this was no time to get emotional. No, it was time to settle down with a cup of tea to watch The Vicar of Dibley on UK Gold and ponder my next move.
More news as it happens, folks.
Monday, August 08, 2005
The second case for Kats PI!
Tuesday September 7th 2004
I just thought I'd keep you all up to date with what's been happening.
Since my little adventure with the lovely Dale (who says hello and thanks for all your support), things have been really busy.
I studied hard to get my private investigator licence, and managed to pass the test with flying colours (the colours in question being puce, canary yellow and taupe). Basically, I was given a plot from an episode of 'The Professionals' and told to re-enact it with the aid of plasticine and pipe cleaners. Then I had to solve a few brain teasers and explain exactly why I wanted to become a private dick (so to speak). I think my answer really impressed them, centring as it did on the use of obscure martial arts (I have a black belt in origami) and a McGyver-style ingenuity to get me out of any tight spots. The examiners also had a glowing recommendation from Dale, which I think helped too, though I think the lavender-scented notepaper was taking it a shade too far.
Anyhow, I'm now official and working on my first real case (I can't afford a desk yet). Last night, just as I was shutting up shop, I received a phonecall from a mysterious stranger. I think it was a man, but his voice was quite muffled, so I couldn't be completely sure. He seemed very anxious, so I kept things to the point and asked him how I could help.
He asked me to meet him in level 3 of the local Safeway's car park, a den of iniquity if ever there was one. So, at the appointed hour, I picked my way through the discarded cartons of Ribena Extra (for kids who want something a little stronger) and cigar butts (we're very upmarket in this neighbourhood you know) and waited just by the trolley park.
Sure enough, out of the darkness loomed a looming figure. 'My name is Mr Loomis, and you, I presume, are Kats, PI.' I answered in the affirmative, and the figure proceeded to describe what he wanted me to do. I slapped him, as I'm not that kind of girl - and anyway, pink pvc aprons just don't suit me. He apologised for being so forward, then revealed his real reason for asking me to meet him. It turns out that he's being blackmailed by a filthy blackmailer. He wouldn't say what the blackmailer had on him, but he did hand me some of the notes he'd received, along with one or two rather interesting pictures of Barbara Woodhouse in the nude.
I gave him the photos back, as they really weren't going to help my investigations. The notes looked like your bog-standard blackmail notes, though the paper was interesting. It had a faint odour of pickled onions mixed with exhaust fumes, with just a hint of eau de cologne.
I told him that I'd have to take them away to study them (I've just taken delivery of my CSI forensic action pack so I'm all set) and we went our separate ways.
I've got the notes at home just waiting for my investigations to continue. I'll let you know what I turn up.
I just thought I'd keep you all up to date with what's been happening.
Since my little adventure with the lovely Dale (who says hello and thanks for all your support), things have been really busy.
I studied hard to get my private investigator licence, and managed to pass the test with flying colours (the colours in question being puce, canary yellow and taupe). Basically, I was given a plot from an episode of 'The Professionals' and told to re-enact it with the aid of plasticine and pipe cleaners. Then I had to solve a few brain teasers and explain exactly why I wanted to become a private dick (so to speak). I think my answer really impressed them, centring as it did on the use of obscure martial arts (I have a black belt in origami) and a McGyver-style ingenuity to get me out of any tight spots. The examiners also had a glowing recommendation from Dale, which I think helped too, though I think the lavender-scented notepaper was taking it a shade too far.
Anyhow, I'm now official and working on my first real case (I can't afford a desk yet). Last night, just as I was shutting up shop, I received a phonecall from a mysterious stranger. I think it was a man, but his voice was quite muffled, so I couldn't be completely sure. He seemed very anxious, so I kept things to the point and asked him how I could help.
He asked me to meet him in level 3 of the local Safeway's car park, a den of iniquity if ever there was one. So, at the appointed hour, I picked my way through the discarded cartons of Ribena Extra (for kids who want something a little stronger) and cigar butts (we're very upmarket in this neighbourhood you know) and waited just by the trolley park.
Sure enough, out of the darkness loomed a looming figure. 'My name is Mr Loomis, and you, I presume, are Kats, PI.' I answered in the affirmative, and the figure proceeded to describe what he wanted me to do. I slapped him, as I'm not that kind of girl - and anyway, pink pvc aprons just don't suit me. He apologised for being so forward, then revealed his real reason for asking me to meet him. It turns out that he's being blackmailed by a filthy blackmailer. He wouldn't say what the blackmailer had on him, but he did hand me some of the notes he'd received, along with one or two rather interesting pictures of Barbara Woodhouse in the nude.
I gave him the photos back, as they really weren't going to help my investigations. The notes looked like your bog-standard blackmail notes, though the paper was interesting. It had a faint odour of pickled onions mixed with exhaust fumes, with just a hint of eau de cologne.
I told him that I'd have to take them away to study them (I've just taken delivery of my CSI forensic action pack so I'm all set) and we went our separate ways.
I've got the notes at home just waiting for my investigations to continue. I'll let you know what I turn up.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
A successful conclusion...
Wednesday August 25th 2004
Yes, Dale has been saved from certain death by your very own Kats, PI. (I'm just like Magnum, only I have no tash and better taste in shirts.)
I'm sure you want to know what happened.
As I suspected, the FTFA took the bait (along with the money and pork scratchings) and nicked off with the ransom just after I'd gone home to eat bonbons and watch Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen put up a dado rail clad only in a Noddy posing pouch and purple sparkly nipple clamps. (It's UK TV Style Late - the latest in pay per view tv, in case anyone's interested.)
Well anyway, the homing device (a hole in the money bag and two leaky jumbo sized tubs of Hundreds and Thousands) worked, and soon I was hot on their trail. It led, inexorably, to the park, past the paddling pool, round the bandstand twice and up towards the swings. Shockingly, the trail ended here, and in a fit of grief and rage, I had a bit of a go on the swings. Higher and higher I swung, in a manner befitting the daring young man of flying trapeze fame. All at once, it hit me (the overhanging branch of the tree), and I was forced to cut short my swingy antics. I was momentarily dazed, but then had another flash of inspiration (I'm going to have to stop doing that, it's most unseemly for a lady of my... proportions). This is exactly what the kidnappers had done. No, not the flashing, the swinging thing. I retraced my steps (missing out the branch in the face) and was able to deduce that they'd made for the local biscuit factory (closed down since the custard cream blight of 1953). The building was still standing, though looking the worse for wear (with broken windows, peeling paintwork and some quite shocking graffiti - I know for a fact that Mrs Golightly at No 30 does not show you a good time, she can't even make a decent cup of Nescafe for goodness sake.)
I crept silently towards the side of the factory, where the security fence had been weakened by rust and the application of wire cutters. From there it was an easy task to gain entrance to the building. It was quite terrifying inside, the machines which lay idle all looked like instruments of torture. I may never eat garibaldis again. I heard muffled sounds of arguing coming from the first floor offices, so I crept up there and peeked in through the window. There on the floor, bound and gagged was Dale! He didn't look too happy, though there were no visible signs of injury. There was a side entrance to the office, so I crawled inside, and round to the side of the desk against which Dale had been propped. I removed his gag, probably not the best idea I'd ever had as he let out the campest shriek I've ever heard and whispered (in a voice loud enough to be heard three streets away let alone in the next room) 'Ooooh let's go wild in the aisles!!!'
I tried to shush him, but my powers were weak. Instead I tried reasoning with him.
'My name is Kats, I'm here to rescue you from the FTFA. The police didn't take my report of your kidnapping seriously, so I had to take matters into my own hands'
'Are you mad?' he replied.
'Mad? I'm bloody furious, I'm missing Eastenders for this you know.'
Fortunately this seemed to pacify him, though I think the sedative I had injected him with might have had something to do with it. It was a mixture of camomile, lavender and ground up copies of Hello!, distilled into a tincture which I carry everywhere.
I needed a diversion, so crept back downstairs and turned on the bourbon and jammy dodger machines. With no biscuits to fill, the place was soon knee deep in chocolate flavoured filling and jam. A sticky situation, I'm sure you'll agree. Fortunately I managed to fashion a crude coracle-type boat from one of the large buckets which had previously held the toppings for Iced Gems. I levered Dale into the bucket, grabbed a coat stand to use as an oar and off we set.
Unfortunately, by this time we'd attracted the attention of the kidnappers, who'd removed their balaclavas to reveal that they were none other than Sir Alan of Titchmarsh and Linda Barker. Jealous of the attention that the more orange celebs were getting, they'd embarked on a campaign to rid the world of them, so the whole ransom thing was just a token gesture. Well, after all the work I'd put in, I was pretty narked I can tell you. And Dale was none too pleased either. I drew myself up to my full height of 5'3", fixed Alan with the librarian death stare (level 1), and flicked rubber bands at Linda until she started to cry. Alan was stunned, and toppled over into the huge lake of jam/chocolate flavoured filling that was rapidly filling the ground floor.
Just at that moment, the doors were flung open and the massed ranks of the local constabulary (3 pcs, the desk sergeant and a rather harrassed looking alsatian) were covered in jam, as the sticky ooze.. well... oozed out of the doors. They'd apparently been called by the lady across the street who'd heard some gunshots (she'd forgotten that she was watching Kojak at the time.)
I spent the night in the cells for causing a breach of the peace and causing jam related injury to a policeman. Dale is none the worse for his ordeal, and as a thank you has offered me free seats to his Lottery show. Linda was detained in custardy (sorry, couldn't resist) and is due to appear in court in three weeks time. Sir Alan of Titchmarsh's body was never found. I suspect we'll be hearing from him again, but this time I'll be ready.
Keep 'em peeled.
Kats, PI - signing off.
Yes, Dale has been saved from certain death by your very own Kats, PI. (I'm just like Magnum, only I have no tash and better taste in shirts.)
I'm sure you want to know what happened.
As I suspected, the FTFA took the bait (along with the money and pork scratchings) and nicked off with the ransom just after I'd gone home to eat bonbons and watch Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen put up a dado rail clad only in a Noddy posing pouch and purple sparkly nipple clamps. (It's UK TV Style Late - the latest in pay per view tv, in case anyone's interested.)
Well anyway, the homing device (a hole in the money bag and two leaky jumbo sized tubs of Hundreds and Thousands) worked, and soon I was hot on their trail. It led, inexorably, to the park, past the paddling pool, round the bandstand twice and up towards the swings. Shockingly, the trail ended here, and in a fit of grief and rage, I had a bit of a go on the swings. Higher and higher I swung, in a manner befitting the daring young man of flying trapeze fame. All at once, it hit me (the overhanging branch of the tree), and I was forced to cut short my swingy antics. I was momentarily dazed, but then had another flash of inspiration (I'm going to have to stop doing that, it's most unseemly for a lady of my... proportions). This is exactly what the kidnappers had done. No, not the flashing, the swinging thing. I retraced my steps (missing out the branch in the face) and was able to deduce that they'd made for the local biscuit factory (closed down since the custard cream blight of 1953). The building was still standing, though looking the worse for wear (with broken windows, peeling paintwork and some quite shocking graffiti - I know for a fact that Mrs Golightly at No 30 does not show you a good time, she can't even make a decent cup of Nescafe for goodness sake.)
I crept silently towards the side of the factory, where the security fence had been weakened by rust and the application of wire cutters. From there it was an easy task to gain entrance to the building. It was quite terrifying inside, the machines which lay idle all looked like instruments of torture. I may never eat garibaldis again. I heard muffled sounds of arguing coming from the first floor offices, so I crept up there and peeked in through the window. There on the floor, bound and gagged was Dale! He didn't look too happy, though there were no visible signs of injury. There was a side entrance to the office, so I crawled inside, and round to the side of the desk against which Dale had been propped. I removed his gag, probably not the best idea I'd ever had as he let out the campest shriek I've ever heard and whispered (in a voice loud enough to be heard three streets away let alone in the next room) 'Ooooh let's go wild in the aisles!!!'
I tried to shush him, but my powers were weak. Instead I tried reasoning with him.
'My name is Kats, I'm here to rescue you from the FTFA. The police didn't take my report of your kidnapping seriously, so I had to take matters into my own hands'
'Are you mad?' he replied.
'Mad? I'm bloody furious, I'm missing Eastenders for this you know.'
Fortunately this seemed to pacify him, though I think the sedative I had injected him with might have had something to do with it. It was a mixture of camomile, lavender and ground up copies of Hello!, distilled into a tincture which I carry everywhere.
I needed a diversion, so crept back downstairs and turned on the bourbon and jammy dodger machines. With no biscuits to fill, the place was soon knee deep in chocolate flavoured filling and jam. A sticky situation, I'm sure you'll agree. Fortunately I managed to fashion a crude coracle-type boat from one of the large buckets which had previously held the toppings for Iced Gems. I levered Dale into the bucket, grabbed a coat stand to use as an oar and off we set.
Unfortunately, by this time we'd attracted the attention of the kidnappers, who'd removed their balaclavas to reveal that they were none other than Sir Alan of Titchmarsh and Linda Barker. Jealous of the attention that the more orange celebs were getting, they'd embarked on a campaign to rid the world of them, so the whole ransom thing was just a token gesture. Well, after all the work I'd put in, I was pretty narked I can tell you. And Dale was none too pleased either. I drew myself up to my full height of 5'3", fixed Alan with the librarian death stare (level 1), and flicked rubber bands at Linda until she started to cry. Alan was stunned, and toppled over into the huge lake of jam/chocolate flavoured filling that was rapidly filling the ground floor.
Just at that moment, the doors were flung open and the massed ranks of the local constabulary (3 pcs, the desk sergeant and a rather harrassed looking alsatian) were covered in jam, as the sticky ooze.. well... oozed out of the doors. They'd apparently been called by the lady across the street who'd heard some gunshots (she'd forgotten that she was watching Kojak at the time.)
I spent the night in the cells for causing a breach of the peace and causing jam related injury to a policeman. Dale is none the worse for his ordeal, and as a thank you has offered me free seats to his Lottery show. Linda was detained in custardy (sorry, couldn't resist) and is due to appear in court in three weeks time. Sir Alan of Titchmarsh's body was never found. I suspect we'll be hearing from him again, but this time I'll be ready.
Keep 'em peeled.
Kats, PI - signing off.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Yet another update
Tuesday August 24th 2004
I wasn’t sure how I was going to raise the money needed for Dale’s ransom, but I knew I didn’t have a lot of time. The subscription to Zoo would be a bit more of a thorny problem, so I just set up an order with the local newsagent. When he asked who it was for, I just said that it should be collected by a hooded freedom fighter, which didn’t seem to cause too many problems. Thankfully, he also had some pork scratchings in stock, so I bought a few of those whilst I was there. Along with the Times Literary Supplement and a red carnation (that’s nothing to do with the story, I’m just trying out a matchmaking service later this week, though I’m not really sure Norman Cheeseman Esq is really the kind of man I’m after).
Anyway, back to the tale at hand. I could only think of one surefire way to make some cash, but I had no-one to hold my bag of change. And besides, I’d been cautioned the last time I’d been hanging around the docks. So, what else would work? All of a sudden, I had a flash of inspiration. (My case comes up next week.) I’d hold a Blue Peter style Bring ‘n’ Buy sale. Marvellous. Of course, it was a bit short notice, but there are plenty of old folks living in the area, and they’re always complaining that there’s not enough to do, apart from harassing the local bus drivers and smelling of wee.
I managed to persuade Mr Hopkiss, the local vicar to open the church hall late, and, with the aid of the churchwarden, I got all the tables set up. Word soon went round and soon we had old folk hurrying towards the sale, as fast as their zimmer frames and electric chariots would carry them. Luckily we had bargains a-plenty, and apart from two ladies fighting over a Damart thermal vest, it all went off fairly peacefully. Fortunately, we managed to raise £523.43, so Dale would be saved!
I sorted out all the cash, wrapped carefully as the note demanded in a Tesco carrier bag. I had the devil’s own job tracking down a Waitrose carrier bag, but as luck would have it, Mrs Jones from No 4 managed to find one that would do. I added a note of my own, informing them that the getaway car would be parked in the green section of the local multi-storey car park, with a sign in the window indicating that it was for the use of local villains. So, as darkness fell over our sleepy suburb, I crept out towards Oddbins. I also secreted a homing device in the folds of the carrier bag (also from my Detective Action Pack), so I’d be able to track the miscreants to their lair. I did wait to see if anyone picked up the ransom, but I had things I needed to do at home, and let’s be honest, time and Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen wait for no-one.
More news as it happens.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to raise the money needed for Dale’s ransom, but I knew I didn’t have a lot of time. The subscription to Zoo would be a bit more of a thorny problem, so I just set up an order with the local newsagent. When he asked who it was for, I just said that it should be collected by a hooded freedom fighter, which didn’t seem to cause too many problems. Thankfully, he also had some pork scratchings in stock, so I bought a few of those whilst I was there. Along with the Times Literary Supplement and a red carnation (that’s nothing to do with the story, I’m just trying out a matchmaking service later this week, though I’m not really sure Norman Cheeseman Esq is really the kind of man I’m after).
Anyway, back to the tale at hand. I could only think of one surefire way to make some cash, but I had no-one to hold my bag of change. And besides, I’d been cautioned the last time I’d been hanging around the docks. So, what else would work? All of a sudden, I had a flash of inspiration. (My case comes up next week.) I’d hold a Blue Peter style Bring ‘n’ Buy sale. Marvellous. Of course, it was a bit short notice, but there are plenty of old folks living in the area, and they’re always complaining that there’s not enough to do, apart from harassing the local bus drivers and smelling of wee.
I managed to persuade Mr Hopkiss, the local vicar to open the church hall late, and, with the aid of the churchwarden, I got all the tables set up. Word soon went round and soon we had old folk hurrying towards the sale, as fast as their zimmer frames and electric chariots would carry them. Luckily we had bargains a-plenty, and apart from two ladies fighting over a Damart thermal vest, it all went off fairly peacefully. Fortunately, we managed to raise £523.43, so Dale would be saved!
I sorted out all the cash, wrapped carefully as the note demanded in a Tesco carrier bag. I had the devil’s own job tracking down a Waitrose carrier bag, but as luck would have it, Mrs Jones from No 4 managed to find one that would do. I added a note of my own, informing them that the getaway car would be parked in the green section of the local multi-storey car park, with a sign in the window indicating that it was for the use of local villains. So, as darkness fell over our sleepy suburb, I crept out towards Oddbins. I also secreted a homing device in the folds of the carrier bag (also from my Detective Action Pack), so I’d be able to track the miscreants to their lair. I did wait to see if anyone picked up the ransom, but I had things I needed to do at home, and let’s be honest, time and Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen wait for no-one.
More news as it happens.
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